


The Artefacts

by Anonymous



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ava gathers the remains of her life.
Relationships: Ava du Mortain/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Female Detective/Ava du Mortain, Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19
Collections: Anonymous, The Ember Days





	1. Stockholm, Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evil_bunny_king](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/gifts).



> Formerly titled 'The Gold Room', from Richard Siken's 'Snow and Dirty Rain'.

His hair is longer than she remembers it being — an unruly tangle crowned with thorns, curling slightly at the edges of his forehead — but he looks as she knew him to be in those wild days, warm and cruelly beautiful, his lips a shade of red that reminds her of his open mouth, running over with blood — Nate was always hungry then.

And herself — she cannot look at herself.

Between them, Dinah looks half sacrifice, half object of adoration, her gaze heavy-lidded and sultry, her mouth curved into a hazy smile that suggests her acceptance of her fate, to be permanently entangled with them, condemned to the canvas in their arms.

The portrait does not make her feel the way she assumed it would.  


“Så vacker.” _So beautiful_.  


A man, older — silver strands streak through his hair, combed back, and age has weathered his features, pinking his nose and lining his jaw — dressed neatly, comes to stand beside her. It was quiet in the gallery, before he spoke — and for a moment after, it is as if the low sound of his approval shakes the building, shatters the lights overhead, sinks Blasieholmen back into the dark water that surrounds it, brings Ava to her knees. 

Her arms have become untamed and restless at her sides, fingers curling towards her palms, unfurling again, agitation coming to a slow boil beneath her skin. “Det tycker jag med.” 

He glances at her, briefly — the set of her jaw, her broad shoulders, the pale blonde hair that made him mistake her for someone he could recognise, another _svenskar_ , someone he’s passed on the street before, who lives in his apartment building in Solna or Söder, who comes from the village he grew up in on the Western coast — before his gaze returns to the portrait, lingering on the way Ava clutches at Dinah’s shoulder, the shadows painted dark beneath her fingertips. 

She hadn’t ever realised how tight her hold on the woman she loves was; one that must have left marks, if not full-bloom bruises — and there is the stretch of Nate’s smallest finger towards Dinah’s own hand, the brush of his body against hers, his dark, glittering eyes — the burnished gold colour of his skin in the light that sunk through the forest canopy, and a green she can taste in the back of her throat, a green she hasn’t tasted in centuries, the grass in Lauterbrunnen may be the same shade in this century but the way it settles on the tongue it is different now, everything is different now — 

“Gammal kärlek rostar aldrig.”  


This, then, _is the same_ —that she loves them — that she would sing for them in a meadow, draped in white silk and gauze, anointed with milk and honey, her lips painted so slightly parted that she must be the only person alive now who knows that her mouth was open, that the gleam of her teeth lay just beyond the pale pink of it and that the fact her laugh was not drawn was a favour that was never repaid — 

Dinah’s head was so warm beneath the press of her cheek, soaked in sun, that’s why she is flushed, that is what Ava has always told herself — 

The sound of the man’s voice is less startling now, but the words themselves — she looks at him again. One corner of his mouth has tipped upwards, a smile that conveys an unquestioning understanding that the woman in the portrait is the same one that stands next to him. 

“You have lovely eyes,” the man says, in English, nods his head, and leaves her.

Outside, a light snow has begun to fall.


	2. Rabbit and Coq Gaulois

**Letter 18.**

Imperial City, Peking, the Eighteen Provinces  
December 31st, 1889

My Dear Coq Gaulois,

A phrase I have been learning is ‘只羨鴛鴦不羨仙’ — do you not marvel, as I do, at the sharpness of these strokes, how decisive the shapes are? I feel they leave me little room for error, eager student that I am, but I could not adore them any less. You know, of course, how fond I am not of Latin and its letters — the knife points of Mandarin, evident both in its characters and syllables, remind me of you. I would teach it to you, if ever you came here. Let me teach you this now: 只羨鴛鴦不羨仙. Clever as I am, darling, clever as you are, I do not think I can convey its pronunciation through mere transcription. You will have to visit, of course, as soon as possible, and I will say it for you, over and over and over, until you are tired of it. I know how easily you tire. I suspect I will only have to say it once. 

It means something like, ‘envy the Mandarin ducks, and not the Immortals.’ The ducks, you see, are a kind of lovebird; it is better to die intertwined with your lover than to live eternally alone. You can see, of course, how this phrase reminded me of you — and of our beloved [scratched out], who is so far away from us at this point in time, but whose countenance shines a gleaming gold brighter than the moon in my memories. It is not difficult to believe I will be snared in a love plucked from the depths of my dreams in a hundred years. I count each of them eagerly. I await the changing of this year to the next with my breath suspended; this decade has succumbed to our teeth, my dear, and soon, the next will flit past, and we will cradle the future we have been promised in our outstretched arms. 

I would think, then, that I would enjoy being both duck and God — undying and entangled. 

You see, these are the sorts of cruel and philosophical questions I am threatened by without you to ward them off. I have, tragically, I’m sure you understand, been left mostly to amuse myself as of late; [scratched out] has been unsuccessful to date. It is likely the treaty I drafted months ago will be breached again within the coming weeks, and all that will be left to rely on for enforcement will be the word at the heart of it — force. Which is, of course, what makes me wish for your return to my side most. 

You know that I am a soft creature, darling. Any blood in my mouth is only there as a matter of survival. I do not hunger for it. It is exhausting to watch my attempts at diplomacy fail again and again. It’s the involvement of the [scratched out] that has jeopardised them. I do not use this word lightly, as you know — but they are all weak. Cowardice radiates; it has poisoned us all. Our efforts have the same affliction. We are all cowards, doing the work of cowards, now. 

I do not like speaking of these matters. We shall return to the ducks, and I will imagine myself kicking my feet in the water. You and [scratched out] would be soaked, and soak me in return, I’m sure. We will be wet for eternity, and I will be delirious and content and dripping. 

Let us drink to a new year together as soon as we are able.

One hundred and twenty eight remaining. On the Gregorian, anyway. I continue to count them. Do you?

Yours, Rabbit

Of course. I cannot forget again. Please give the best there is in this world to offer to Laurent. Do not terrorise him. 

And keep a careful watch on Serbia. The new century is drawing ever closer, my dear friend. What is ten years to us? What is a century?

🐇 

_Lot 21. Correspondence between two anonymous persons, ‘Coq Gaulois’ and ‘Rabbit’; Letters 3-29 excepting Letters 5 and 16._

_Estimate: 24,000 - 28,000 GBP_

_Neither individual has been identified with any certainty. Based on the name given to the ‘Coq Gaulois’, it can be presumed that he was associated with France in some way; by the date of the first letter, in 1887, France had entered the period of the Third Republic, of which the Gallic rooster was a symbol. However, ‘Coq Gaulois’ may also have been an innuendo. ‘Rabbit’ seems to display a strong proficiency in both English and French, as well as several dialects of Chinese and Arabic in addition to Persian, and some have suggested that the letters were exchanged between two lovers in a homosexual relationship that spanned the English Channel, and, later, between Europe and Asia, with ‘coq’ as a substitute for ‘cock’._

_‘Rabbit’ is believed to be a prolific author of several novels and books of poetry published anonymously in England and France in the late nineteenth century, as well as the close friend of the Duchess of Mornay, born Viktoria Danilovna Siyakayeva, who hosted a number of salons at her apartment in London, and was said to be the mistress of Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte in her youth._

_Lost during the First World War, they were re-discovered in 2004, during renovations of the Chateau Cyprès in France’s Loire Valley, and immediately gained attention for their astonishing — and, at points, chilling — clairvoyance regarding what the future held for Europe. Their tone is jovial when referencing events that would occur nearly 30 years later, as though ‘Coq Gaulois’ and ‘Rabbit’ were in on a joke the rest of the world did not yet know. In addition, some of the letters have sentences in what appears to be a language that has not yet been identified, in what has become a prolific puzzle for linguists. This may suggest the two men were spies, but this theory as lacked evidence, though its popularity persists._

_However, the letters also hold value for their literary merits — referred to as ‘the Mandarin Duck letters’ after the Mandarin phrase ‘只羨鴛鴦不羨仙’, translated by ‘Rabbit’ in Letter 18, they are an extraordinary and atypical exploration of grief, seemingly referencing a third person [whose name is systematically scratched out of the letters, along with other phrases] both were acquainted with and who has died some time ago, but who both ‘Coq Gaulois’ and ‘Rabbit’ seem to believe they will meet again ‘in the future’._

_It has been suggested by some scholars that ‘the Mandarin Duck letters’ are hoaxes. However, they have been authenticated as originating in the years specified due to carbon dating, pigment and technique identification, and identifying marks, like postage on Letter 29′s envelope, so they can be assumed to be authentic. Bearing in mind, then, that it is possible they were instead fiction, and they may have been an elaborate story, unfolding between two men, they are still of great value to the literary and historical communities — and no explanation has ever been discovered as to why they were able to so accurately predict a future that they could not have possibly known._

🐓 

“I must confess, I was quite surprised to receive your inquiry.”

“I’m aware of the unorthodoxy of it,” Ava says, removing her driving gloves finger by finger. “But my employer is willing to pay any price to purchase the letters outright and keep them from going to auction.”

The man gives her a long glance at the mention of her employer. He must have assumed something of her — that she comes from a breed with dignity. Nobility. Englishness. That she was as wealthy as his usual clients; that she was in this room of her own accord, by her own doing. Or, at the very least, her husband’s, or her father’s. ‘Employer’ separates them. Now, she is only an employee, just like him, a representative for a man like all the others, better than than the others, because her employer is, at this moment, somewhere else in the world, not here, he has to money to pay Ava to be here in his stead.

The unending fascination men have with wealth — it is entirely human and repulses her.

She returns his stare, lifting her chin, thinking of what his blood would taste like in the back of her throat, but only briefly, and only out of habit and impulse, the fantasy that stems the blood flow, a coagulant she developed three hundred years ago.

The man holds her gaze. 

She’s made the calculations. For someone willing to pay any price, there is little reason to fear an auction, and its most tragic outcome, a fatal bid. An outright purchase is a gamble for the house, who may have been able to extort Ava’s unnamed employer for a higher price than is paid outright. 

But — Ava cannot risk not having the letters in her grasp again. Any amount of risk is too much. 

“They’re really quite extraordinary — reading them — absolutely chilling, to read the pinpoint accuracy with which the two men were able to predict the future.”

‘ _Men_ ,’ Ava thinks, ‘ _How are you certain_?’ Aloud, she says, “Yes. My employer was drawn to them for that reason.”

His gaze lingers on her. He is attempting to discern something about her.

The English tend to mistake her for German, these days. Austere and tight-lipped. The obvious answer of her accent, wholly belonging to their countrymen, is diminished with caveats (an international education in her youth; or else a teacher in Bad Aachen, or Freiburg im Breisgau, from Oxford, or Bristol, or Brighton). The pale gold of her hair and rigidity of her posture fail to betray her motherland — she scarcely understands the word, now. She is from a place that no longer exists. She has lived in a thousand places since its destruction. 

She holds little faith in her ability to recognise the Sélune and Couesnon as they are; Saint-Lô is neat rows of houses instead of the green and ash it was when she last stood in the soil there, kneeling in the wild fields, blood in the spaces between her fingers and staining her nails.

Ava knew them by a different name, then, even. Now — des doigts et ongles. 

Nate would be amused by the assumption that she is a Teuton, not only for its inaccuracy, but for the way that, a mere few centuries ago, it would have made her clench her jaw tightly and curl her lip in an animal snarl and narrow her eyes. He did not speak German to her for a very long time, even when it would have been advantageous.

She glances to the letters, splayed without dignity on the man's desk. She recognises the loop of Nate’s scrawl; the way he insisted on writing the Mandarin characters for her even entirely aware of their unintelligibility to her.

There is a callousness to the idea of selling such precious things to the person most willing to pay an exorbitant price for them; half the people who would bid on the letters have little care for their significance and want them only because so many people would be willing to pay an exorbitant price for them. An unending loop of greed. 

She’ll put an end to it.

“May I examine them?’

The man nods, briefly. She puts on a new pair of gloves, though the ritual seems unfortunate. Touching something that belongs to her should not have consequences.

Ava runs her gloved finger across a line of black, where a word, or a name, was aggressively scratched out with ink the colour of smoke.

She was the one who removed Dinah’s name before leaving the letters in the Chateau and moving where the Agency commanded her to — this would have been near when they found Mason, surely. She had not met the girl, as Nate did — and _herself_ , too, Nate had met her, when he met Dinah in Lauterbrunnen, the version of herself that had lived through three more centuries with him, who loved Dinah in the same carnal, adoring way he did, who wrote the letters — but he had wished to protect her, and Ava, then, wished for the same. 

The mechanics and machinations of time are strange and impossible even to her. 

She lifts her head again. “Any price,” the vampire reiterates, “Deliver these, and it will be paid.”

He looks overly pleased with himself, considering he did little more than sit across from her. She was the one who came here. Who offered him that which he is so pleased with. Her lip curls, just briefly, before she imagines his blood in her mouth again, and places her hand on the armrest of her seat. 

Most of the meeting is little professional dignities. They shake hands. Exchange cards. 

“We will contact you as soon as possible, but I do believe that an outright purchase can be arrange — for ‘any price’.”

She retrieves her coat, and removes the latex gloves and replaces them with her leather driving ones, and makes an error.

“The Coq Gaulois was a woman,” Ava says, as she leaves.

The answer, from the man, now behind the door, in another world entirely from her, is only a hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just found the idea of Dinah telling (past) Nate everything about the future on the condition he and Ava do nothing to change it, and Nate telling (past) Ava everything too, and historians later being like ‘why did these two anonymous, random people know so much about the future?’ very funny. I don't know how the time travel works. Don't ask.
> 
> Happy birthday, Bunny 💕 (And EJ, if you see this, your gift is coming!)


End file.
